What To Say
by GeorgiaRayne
Summary: Claire never knew what to say. Clairecentric, friendship, angst.


**Title: **What To Say

**Author: **GeorgiaRayne

**Summary: **Claire never knew what to say.

**Feedback:** I'd love to hear what you think, and I promise to reply to all reviews.

**Archive:** Sure, but let me know first.

**Disclaimer:** GR owns nothing. Really. Promise.

Claire never knew what to say. Not that many people did in these situations but it just seemed like she'd never had a way with words. Like she didn't have that knack for conversation that most people didn't even realise they possessed. Not like Jack. She watched him, sitting on a rock near the waterfall, taking inventory of their meagre medical supplies. Jack was so capable, he had such and authority to him – somehow he managed to make everyone feel safe. Maybe it was something to do with being a doctor, maybe it was the way his eyes showed intelligence, and life experience; whatever it was, Claire didn't have it. She remembered the way he'd told the group how important it was to live together – "live together, or die alone," he'd said. Claire had never been a leader; she could never inspire and motivate people like Jack could.

She wasn't like Locke either. Everything he said, no matter how trivial the words were, seemed profound and compelling. He was mysterious, yet strangely magnetic, and impossible not to listen to. Claire was sure she'd never be so wise. Locke always seemed to know what to do and how everyone was feeling; what people thought and why. Claire often felt like she didn't understand anything at all.

She wasn't brave, like Kate. Everything Kate did exuded courage. Claire remembered how, just a day after the crash, she'd stopped a savage fist-fight with only a single word. One shout, one command, and everyone had listened. Claire couldn't imagine having that kind of power.

She wasn't brazen and confident, like Ana-Lucia. Ana could hold her own against anyone, nothing intimidated her. Apparently she used to be a cop – Claire could just imagine her striding around the bullpen, barking orders, staring down anyone who dared to give her attitude. She tired to imagine herself in a similar situation and almost laughed – she was nothing like Ana. Claire was neither brazen nor confident – she was timid, and easily shocked.

Claire looked around the cave clearing – he wasn't there. Perhaps he'd gone to the beach? She followed the path away from the caves, and headed for the area that once served as the building site for the raft. Perhaps he was helping build . . . whatever the new structure was supposed to be. She saw someone moving around and squinted against the sunlight to get a better look. Nope, only Charlie tying pieces of bamboo into clumps. She was careful to stay out of sight – things were still awkward between them.

Claire sighed. She wasn't like Charlie, with his shining eyes and never-ending energy. She couldn't chatter excitedly about anything and everything, she couldn't wear her heart on her sleeve the way he did. Claire was guarded and shy – if she was ever on stage in front of hundreds of people, she'd never be able to perform like Charlie did – she'd want to sink through the floor.

She wasn't impressive, like Mr Eko. The huge Nigerian was calm and softly spoken, yet he commanded an audience with only a few words. Claire could never be succinct and decisive like him – she tended to ramble.

She wasn't elegant, like Sun. Sun's words had a quiet, demure appeal to them; she was peaceful and soothing. Claire lacked this phlegmatic nature. She often lost her temper, screamed and raged. She could never hold it together the way Sun did – she remembered how, a little over a week ago, she'd carelessly snapped at the gentle Korean woman, and felt a pang of guilt at the memory of Sun's wounded expression.

She wasn't like Jin, whose deliberate monosyllables always managed to convey such sincerity. Even when he spoke in his native tongue that no-one else understood, he seemed so honest somehow, so reliable – as if nothing could persuade him to do anything except what he knew was right. Claire didn't have that kind of tenacity – she was forever questioning herself.

She heard the familiar, repetitive thud of the axe a few metres behind her, and veered slightly off the path to a clearing just behind the tree line. Maybe he was chopping more firewood? No, it was only Sawyer. Claire wasn't like him either – he was definitely intelligent, she had seen it in his eyes, but his sarcastic wit had a way of making everyone feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. He was offensive yet charming at the same time – the combination of his clever quips and slightly cruel nicknames made people uneasy. Claire had never been one for sarcasm or cutting remarks, and she'd never been very clever.

She wasn't funny, like Hurley. She couldn't dead-pan one-liners, or reel off a hilarious anecdote to lighten everyone's mood. When Hurley spoke, people smiled, because if he wasn't joking then, he would be soon. People never seemed to get Claire's jokes, so she'd stopped making any.

She wasn't passionate and determined, like Michael. She could never make up her mind and go for it the way he did – when everyone else was helplessly waiting for a rescue plane that would never come, it was Michael who'd decided he wanted off the island and built a raft. It was his enthusiasm that got the job done, which was something Claire had never had – she tended to dither, and had gotten used to people dismissing any emotion she expressed as "hormones".

She wasn't innocent, like Walt. She'd lost her innocence long ago, before the crash even. She envied Walt his ability to speak the simple, blunt truths that only a child could get away with – she was always worried about hurting someone's feelings, and her unfortunate habit of putting her foot in her mouth.

She wasn't like Rose either – with her unshakeable faith, her words seem to take on almost a healing quality, whether she was speaking or singing. Her accepting, unfazeable nature was something to be admired. Claire often felt like she'd lost her faith altogether.

She rounded the ominously familiar clump of trees a second before it hit her and she realised where she was – the clearing where Shannon had been fatally wounded only a few days ago. The reason she didn't know what to say, the reason she was there. The reason he was too.

Claire wasn't like Sayid. She was afraid of him sometimes – his fiery temper made her nervous and he was known for having a short fuse. Then again, he'd always been so nice to her, so protective. And she couldn't forget the love she'd seen in his eyes when he'd looked at the photo she'd returned to him two months ago – or his love for Shannon. That love, more so than any angry outburst, that was the real Sayid, the part that really mattered, and right now that part was in pain.

Still, she hesitated. He had his back to her, he hadn't seen her yet. Maybe it was just as well, he might want to be left alone. She turned to leave and he spoke.

"I cannot go to her grave." His voice was low and husky, as though from lack of use. "When I am there -" he turned to look at her, and she moved to sit with him. She lowered herself to the ground and he continued. "When I am there, all I see is her death. Her eyes closed. So quiet. Not moving. And that is not her. That is not Shannon." His voice caught in his throat, and she touched his arm lightly, urging him to keep talking. "When I am here – I see her angry. Shouting and raging at me, thinking I did not believe in her. Yet even when she was so. . . . _furious_ with me, she had such strength. Such passion. That is Shannon as I want to remember her. That is. . . . Shannon. . . . I. . . I loved her -" Sayid began to cry, and Claire reached out to hug him. He held her tightly, pulling her so close she was almost sitting on his lap. Claire ran her fingers gently through his curls and slowly stroked the back of his neck as he sobbed on her shoulder. His tears felt warm against her skin; the muscles in his neck were tense as he clung to her, as though afraid she would disappear.

Eventually his shuddering breaths became slower and deeper; his shoulders stopped shaking so violently, his arms released their iron grip and his hands stopped desperately clutching at the back of her shirt. He pulled slightly away from her, wiped at the last of his tears, and then took her hands in his.

"You are very kind," he said quietly. "You know – Shannon used to tell me often how highly she thought of you. She considered you a close friend." He raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. "And I see why." He looked up and met her gaze. "Thank you."

Claire smiled, squeezed his hand gently, and stood up to leave. As she made her way back to the path through the trees, she realized she hadn't spoken to him – not one comforting word, no verbal reassurance of any kind. She inwardly cursed at herself for her thoughtlessness and turned to say something – anything – that might make a difference. But when Sayid returned her smile, she stopped worrying about what to say. Perhaps words weren't so important after all.


End file.
